Cruz pointed his glove toward second. “He’s thinking about it.”
“I know,” I answered, ready to cover the bag if he broke.
Cline threw home, and Dylan took off.
Westcott popped up and fired to second.
I sprinted to the bag and slid in behind it as the throw came in. The ball hit my glove on a short hop, and I swept the tag down quickly.
Dylan came in hard, popped up even faster, and his eyes cut to mine.
The ump punched his fist. “Out.”
Dylan stared at him for a second, then shook his head and backed away from the bag.
“Stay on first next time,” I jabbed, grinning like a fool.
Dylan headed toward their dugout. “Make me.”
Cruz barked a laugh beside the bag. “You two done?”
“Yeah,” I answered. I was used to our ribbing even though it wasn’t usually about baseball.
The lefty dug back in, annoyed now. Cline got the sign and went right at him. The hitter rolled one to Cruz, who gloved it and threw to Palmer for the last out.
We jogged in, and I took a spot leaning on the railing while our lineup went to work, waiting until it was my turn to bat. It didn’t take long for me to realize I wasn’t hitting in the firstinning. Not from the eighth spot, and not with my teammates batting the way they were. Three quick outs, and I never left the bench.
We finally got something going in the bottom of the second—a walk, a single, a pop-out, then another guy got on base.
When it was my turn, I stepped into the on-deck circle and took a couple of swings, eyes on the pitcher, trying to time the pitches. Then I looked up toward the seats behind home plate.
And there she was.
A few rows up, Faye sat alone wearing sunglasses and a ball cap pulled low. Agent Pederson, in plainclothes, was a couple of seats away, watching the crowd more than the field. She lifted her hand and gave me a small wave, casual enough to be for anybody. I froze for half a beat, then waved quickly and forced my eyes away before I got caught staring.
The hitter in front of me struck out and headed back to the dugout. I walked to the box, dug in, and locked in on the pitcher.
The at-bat went quickly. I battled, got a pitch I could handle and hit it hard, but the left fielder caught it.
As I reached the top step of the dugout, Cruz leaned in with a grin. “Your girlfriend’s here?”
I shot him a look. “What girlfriend?”
Not once had anyone mentioned they’d seen the article about me and Faye in St. John, so I’d assumed the guys didn’t know about her.
He tipped his chin toward the stands. “The one waving at you.”
“That’s not my girlfriend,” I lied.
His brows lifted. “All right. Your very supportive friend in a hat, then.”
Smith snorted from down the bench. “She didn’t take her eyes off you. You’ve got an admirer.”
I shoved my batting glove into my cubby. “You two are full of shit.”
Cruz chuckled. “You also forgot where you were for a second.”
“I didn’t forget anything,” I fired back, grabbed a cup of water, and stared out at the field. “Watch the game.”
